All this while, step by step, Gilmore, without haste but without pause, was moving toward his desires.  He came and went in the Langham house as if he were master there.

When Marshall had first informed Evelyn that he expected to have Mr. Gilmore in to dinner, there had been a scene, and she had threatened to appeal to the judge; but he told her fiercely that he would bring home whom he pleased, that it suited him to be decent to Andy and that was all there was to it.  And apparently she soon found something to like in this strange intimate of her husband’s; at least she had made no protest after the gambler’s first visit to the house.

On his part Gilmore was quickly conscious of the subtle encouragement she extended him.  She understood him, she saw into his soul, she divined his passion for her and she was not shocked by it.  In his unholy musings he told himself that here was a woman who was dead game—­and a lady, too, with all the pretty ways and refinements that were so lacking in the other women he had known.

Montgomery was some two days gone toward the West and Gilmore had dropped around ostensibly to see Marshall Langham, but in reality to make love to Marshall Langham’s wife, when the judge, looking gray and old, walked in on the little group unobserved.  He paused for an instant near the door.

Evelyn was seated before the piano and Gilmore was bending above her, while Marshall, with an unread book in his hands and with a half-smoked cigar between his teeth, was lounging in front of the fire.  The judge’s glance rested questioningly on Gilmore, but only for a moment.  Then an angry flame of recognition colored his thin cheeks.

Aware now of his father’s presence, Marshall tossed aside his book and quitted his chair.  For two days he had been dreading this meeting, and for two days he had done what he could to avert it.

“You must have had a rather cold walk, father; let me draw a chair up close to the fire for you,” he said.

Evelyn had risen to greet the judge, while the gambler turned to give him an easy nod.  A smile hid itself in the shadow of his black mustache; he was feeling very sure of himself and surer still of Evelyn.  The disfavor or approval of this slight man of sixty meant nothing to him.

“How do you do, sir!” said the judge with icy civility.

Had he met Gilmore on the street he would not have spoken to him.  As he slowly withdrew his eyes from the gambler, he said to his son: 

“Can you spare me a moment or two, Marshall?”

“Come into the library,” and Marshall led the way from the room.

They walked the length of the hall in silence, Marshall a step or two in advance of the judge.  He knew his father was there on no trivial errand.  This visit was the result of his interview with Joe Montgomery.  How much had the handy-man told him?  This was the question that had been revolving in his mind for the last two days, and he was about to find an answer to it.